


your middle name (is trouble)

by orphan_account



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-03
Updated: 2010-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>they start at Junior Worlds. then they go on from there. some sugar, some angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: starting Junior Worlds 2001. Excuse the attempt at French accents :)

If getting into trouble had been a possible career to consider, Stéphane was sure he'd be making a lot of money. As it was, he had to stick with figure skating, at which he wasn't quite as good at as he'd thought. Fifth was awfully far away from first place.

The trouble came in the somewhat more tantalizing shape of the winner, which was bad on so many levels. Stéphane wasn't the type to sneak off from banquets like others did when they hadn't won. He didn't ditch the coaches to go do something more fun like have a coffee or go shopping; he admitted freely, he was exactly that kind of goody-two-shoes.

But Johnny Weir had the smile. He had that smile that said the world belonged to him, and that Stéphane was part of the world, whether he wanted to or not, so he couldn't possible say no when Johnny asked him out, bold as a mouse to the cheese.

"I am not convinced 'zis a good idea," he mumbled when Johnny pulled him into the empty changing room, fingers entwined. He didn't have that much experience with being pulled into empty changing rooms.

Johnny flushed. "Neither am I, but." He shrugged. "I liked your spins."

Stéphane gave a laugh. "That is all?"

"No," Johnny gave him a sheepish smile.

Stéphane had been one of the few boys who'd talked to him after his second first placing in this competition. Jealousy was not an uncommon thread to weave through the ranks of sportsmen and women, but he had never seen any reason to compare himself with another skater to estimate his own success.

He hadn't done very well today; the result was reflecting this. It wasn't something Johnny was to blame for, just because he'd skated beautifully when Stéphane hadn't.

"Your team mates did not seem so happy with your win," he commented. "I did not congratulate you yet, did I?"

"No," Johnny said, ducking his head to hide the flush to his cheeks. He was clearly pleased about it, but he seemed not to want to brag.

Stéphane smiled. "You should brag more," he said. "You deserved the win, your program was brilliant. Why not show it?"

Johnny shrugged. "I don't want to give the others any more stuff to hate me for. It's bad enough I've only been skating half as long as them with double the development curve they have. Showing off the gold would only rub it in."

"Why do you care?" Stéphane cocked his head to the side. "Do you want them to be your friends?"

Johnny shrugged again. "Can't have too many friends, right?"

"What for?" Stéphane smiled. "It is not like making them friends will stop them from talking about you behind your back."

"True enough. Are you going to talk about me behind my back?"

"Do you want to be friends with me?"

Johnny smiled back. "Answering a question with a question doesn't count!"

"Then no, I won't."

"Then yeah," Johnny agreed. "We can be friends."

Stéphane leaned in a placed a butterfly kiss on his lips.

Wide-eyed wonderment crossed Johnny's eyes. "What was that for?"

"For winning. Congratulations." Stéphane's smile widened.

"Hm." Johnny seemed to ponder this for a moment, then he tilted his head and asked, "So what do you do when you just want to kiss somebody?"

It was, of course, exactly the kind of trouble he really shouldn't be getting into, but then, having Johnny kiss him, deeply, warmly, sloppily, with clumsy nose bumping and tongues touching and shivers all over his body - ... _completely_ worth it.

 

~*~


	2. at the bottom of everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cup of Russia 2007

The hotel is incredible. It's huge and imposing and from the street, it looks like it's going to keel over onto him any moment if just someone on the other side poked a finger at it.

It's a strangely comforting feeling. The team around him, he wouldn't die alone.

 

~*~

 

It's a tradition of sorts for Johnny to wander around the hotel the night before the competition. He can't go out - it's too cold, too dangerous, it's too dark, too _late_ and for all he loves figure skating, the restrictions sometimes feel like a cage, like an all-encompassing invisible cloud of can't - won't - mustn't.

He's heard that the hotel glitters at night. Johnny loves glitter. He wants to see it.

Can't. It's like coffee taste, that word. It was especially sweet after China.

 

~*~

 

Stéphane likes to dance, alone, in his room, just a slow step sequence to fast, breathless music, so unlike the ice. It helps him get his head free. He wants to do well. He wants to do better.

He doesn't care to win. He doesn't care, and he knows why, and everyone should know why: he's confident enough, he has the ability, the grace, the artistry and the skill.

But for himself, for his own standards, that bar he's set as high as ever, he wants to do well. He wants to be proud of what he's created, the impression he's left in people, a dream, a glassy look, a smile full of desire.

 

~*~

 

The warmth drives Johnny up onto the roof and when he gets there, he sees the city at his feet, spread out like a carpet of blinking stars and glowing little fairies flapping their wings.

It's cold. It's gorgeous. He never wants to leave.

His cheeks feel like ice and his nose must be red and he can't even feel it running, but it must be, and he doesn't care. Snow flakes fall on him like little white frazzles, scraps of a cloth ripped from heaven. It's incredibly dark and when he looks up there are no stars in the sky, just black clouds. He can't see where they're coming from, just that they are, and that one turns to two turns to three on his shoulders, his hair, his forehead, turns to water turns to warmth and vanishes.

The wind's like a hurricane up here, strong, almost taking him off the roof, and he wishes he could fly, fly like that guy on Heroes, or superman, or just have wings; Johnny's always dreamt of having wings. It's one of those things nobody knows. Having a secret, any secret, just something to keep close - sometimes that's all you need to keep you going.

 

~*~

 

Stéphane doesn't know what he's doing out of his room at midnight at the day before a competition. He can't sleep. He can't lie down, it makes him nauseous, it makes him jittery, it makes his arms and legs scream for motion.

Sometimes one has to indulge one's body. It knows better than he does what it needs, at times.

Today, he does know what he needs, and it's not something he's going to have until Sunday, if at all. But that's not a reason to stay locked up all night. No sleep means no rest, but at least, he can wander.

The elevator pings.

The elevator pings and the door opens and he's staring into Johnny's pale face, red-rimmed eyes and at his runny nose, drops of water pearling down his clothes.

 

~*~

 

"What are you doing up at this hour?" Johnny gasps.

Stéphane's smile is a little more impish than usual. "What are _you_ doing up at this hour?"

"Answering a question with a question doesn't count!" Johnny mumbles, then winces. He hopes Stéphane didn't hear that.

Stéphane gets in with him without a twitch, so probably not. It doesn't do anything to reassure Johnny. Stéphane's quiet, but he's clearly looking at Johnny, almost staring, if he wasn't far too polite to stare. It's more the kind of glancing that only ever happens when Johnny isn't looking at _him_ , and it's creepy.

"Couldn't sleep?" he finally asks to break the tense little silence. They used to be friends, he remembers. Good friends. Best of friends. Johnny wonders how he manages to fuck everything up.

"No," Stéphane says slowly. "I am a little scared." Then he adds, hesitantly, as if it might be too much, "of skating tomorrow."

He has no problem admitting it. Johnny has always loved that about him. "That you'll lose again?" he asks. He shouldn't want to cause pain, but he does, and it feels petty and childish and he hates himself for it immediately.

Stéphane looks at him like he doesn't quite know whether to answer or not. "No," he finally says patiently. "That I will not be able to give my best, again. I told you before. This has never been about winning or losing to me. It is about performance. About the art."

"Yeah." Johnny shrugs. "We can't all be as confident as you are, can we?" It comes out a little sharper than intended.

Stéphane's eyes harden. "I think not."

Johnny ducks his head flinching.

It makes Stéphane soften again, his whole stance relaxing back into a slight hunch, completely unlike him. "I am sorry. I should not have-"

"It's okay," Johnny interrupts. "It is, it's my fault anyway," he says in French.

He doesn't want to think about it, about the one time, years back, with Stéphane's slender fingers on his hips as his tongue gently explored Johnny's mouth.

Johnny doesn't want to think about it, especially not that time he fucked Stéphane against the seat - the fucking seat - in an empty tour bus, angry and hurt and in so much pain. He doesn't want to remember that that was him. It feels like another person did that, that horrible thing he did, because he's always known, hasn't he, and Stéphane's still looking at him with the same expression he had when they were sixteen.

"It is," Stéphane says softly, but not harshly, not like a reproach at all. More like forgiveness.

The elevator's long stopped, of course. Nobody calls it at this hour, so they simply stand there, behind closed doors, with hunched shoulders and clenched fists, neither knowing what to say.

Johnny wants to be back on the roof with the snow flakes above Moscow and the wings and imagine it's his, everything, and most of all, everything else.

The silence can only last so long and Johnny's not the one of the two of them with the confidence. Not yet.

Stéphane gives him a little smile, moves, a flurry as his fingers brush Johnny's cheek and then the door pings open and he strolls out, without a look back.

 _Next time_ , Johnny thinks and watches him go. Next time maybe, or even this time. Everything else... will be his own too.

 

~*~


	3. everybody's talking (how I can't be in love)

Johnny wins Russia. He's glowing with happiness, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet before they tumble into bed.

It's warm in his hotel room, a little too warm for his taste, but the management's been told most skaters are not used to Russian temperatures. Johnny couldn't care less that exact second because slender fingers are sliding beneath his shirt, caressing the skin underneath, pressing gently against his ribs while they move together, thigh between Johnny's legs, heavy body on top of him.

The mouth against his own feels incredible, tongue slowly sneaking its way past Johnny's lips and checking him out, exploring boldly. They don't cease the thrusts, a steady thumping and squeaking of springs as the bed beneath them moves with their motions.

"You- we should -" Johnny gasps, half-laughing.

"Not stop," comes the reply, gentle chuckling.

"No," Johnny breathes. "Not so loud, though." He has to suppress a giggle.

A hand finds its way past his trouser buttons, slides into his underwear. He gasps, loses track of time. This is far too good to be quiet. He hasn't gotten laid in months.

The boy above him watches him with a curious green gaze, cat-eyes attentive, but not posessive. Johnny returns his look with a smile, unafraid. He doesn't know his name and he's fairly sure the boy returns the favour.

 

~*~

 

Johnny realizes it was a mistake bringing the young man to the hotel when he escorts him back outside after a few hours' rest and manages to run across an old acquiaintaince just as the guy has him pressed against a wall to give him a final kiss goodbye. It's a rather good kiss. The sky's still dark outside, but not for long anymore. It'll start to dawn in three, maybe four hours, leaving enough time - or so he'd thought - to get a good rest before the exhibition tonight.

He flushes when he notices Stéphane's looking at him, strangely calm, considering. There's no reproach in his gaze; but then, there never was, and Johnny cannot quite believe that Stéphane's never thought badly of him for leading him on the way he did.

Or maybe he's being self-centered again. Maybe Stéphane's been leading himself on all along. After all, a few kisses here and there during their teens and a handful of fucks that were over too quickly to count are hardly an agreement that binds him to any oaths.

It still feels weird, seeing the unperturbed expression as he's pulled along towards the exit. He had fun tonight, that is a fact, and Johnny won't let anyone make him feel ashamed for having something for himself, something he deserved. _Someone_ , he reminds himself.

They don't make long goodbyes, rather as Johnny'd hoped. The guy leaves his number in Johnny's jeans pocket, in case he's interested and ever in town again, and Johnny makes his way slowly back, towards the elevator this time; stairs, as always, are a lot easier conquered going down than up.

Stéphane's leaning against the elevator door when he approaches. Johnny's steps slow.

"You really have not changed, have you?" His voice is sardonically light.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Stéphane cocks his head to the side. "And you probably do not even realize how pathetic you are being."

Anger rises in Johnny's throat. "Just leave me the fuck alone," he mutters and tries to push past.

"I am not the one who planned this little rendez-vous, am I?" Stéphane says. Upon Johnny's furious glare, he shrugs. "There is no need to flaunt whoever it is you're sleeping with in my face. It's none of my business, I understand, but -"

"I did nothing of that sort!" Johnny snaps. The happy glow is gone. He just feels chilly now, and angry at himself, because of course, the same moment he says the words, he realizes that he knew exactly Stéphane would be wandering the hotel at this hour - as he did the day before, and the one before that - and he's never, ever accompanied a fuck back to the entrance of the hotel: those three or four times he's done this, they've always said goodbye at the door to his room so that nobody would see them together.

Fuck.

"Right," Stéphane says, knowing look in his eyes. "You keep telling yourself that."

"Oh, shut up and let me get back to my room. I'm tired." It's a cheap shot, but Johnny is exhausted and irritated at himself and at Stéphane for being able to see through this even before Johnny himself did.

"Johnny..." Stéphane mutters.

"I'm dead serious," Johnny scowls. "Just leave me alone."

Stéphane nods his head and steps aside, making room. "Have a good... rest of the night, then," he says under his breath.

Johnny wishes the door to the elevator would close more quickly.

 

~*~

 

It's an asshole thing to do, Johnny knows, to pulls stunts like these just because Stéphane's carrying a torch. It's not fair, it's cruel and petty and by the time he arrives in his room, he feels sufficiently ashamed of himself to consider that maybe, just maybe, Stéphane's playing him for a fool and it wasn't his own fault - after all, he couldn't _know_ Stéphane would stumble upon them and if he liked this boy better than the others before, why not show a bit enthusiasm and interest and walk him out?

He gets into the bed - scent of lube and sex and sweat in the air - and he can't fall asleep for the rest of the night.

 

~*~

 

Stéphane corners him after breakfast. Johnny has no idea what to reply when he says, "I am sorry. I was out of line last night." So he stays silent and looks away.

"I..." Stéphane says into the uncomfortable quietness. Then he seems to pull himself together and finishes, "I should go." His eyes are a little sad.

 

~*~

 

Calling Paris seems like the thing to do. Paris'll know how to untangle the mess Johnny's made.

Paris goes, "What's up?" and that's enough to launch Johnny into a storm of explanations.

"There's this guy," he says, and Paris laughing. "There's always a guy, with you."

"Very funny." Johnny rolls onto his stomach and groans. "It's not that easy."

"He's a figure skater?"

"How the -"

He can practically hear Paris rolling his eyes. "Didn't we say no more falling for other figure skaters? Why don't you find yourself a nice... I don't know. Hockey player or something."

"You're being a regular comedian today," Johnny glares at the wall, because Paris can't receive it himself. "Would you just let me explain before imparting your indefinite wisdom-y cracks on me?"

Paris laughs. "Go ahead, then."

"Right. So, remember when I told you my first time really making out with a boy was with another figure skater?" It feels stupid, worded like that, but it's also true. He can still feel the heat of their thighs brushing, licking over Stéphane's lips in wonderment.

"I don't, but does it matter?"

"No. No, not really, except that I never told you we had this thing, last year after my breakup, you know, and a few years back as well, and there was that one time -"

"..." Paris' silence tells novel-length stories.

"And he was... I mean, he's here, and I did something incredibly stupid, I guess, and I don't know what to do, because he's in love with me and just..."

"He's in love with you? Are you- no, right, you wouldn't tell me if you weren't sure." Paris sounds thoughtful. "So what do you want?"

"What?"

"What about you? I mean... do you want to, like, just screw him again? Or, you know? The real deal?"

"No!" Johnny huffs. "I mean... maybe. But it's not like - I mean, he's from Switzerland and we only see each other, like, a couple times a year, and -"

"And you're being damn stupid," Paris snorts. "Just go to the guy and talk about it. Communication, remember? Lack of which destroyed your last relationship, so get your head outta your ass and stop being a complete chicken. Doesn't suit you."

"Shut up, I'm not."

"Uh-huh. Sure you ain't, baby. Anyway." He makes a sound when Johnny wants to protest. "Be careful, if it does turn out to be the whole, let's-be-in-love deal you're going for. Being one, you should know best figure skaters can be devious when it comes to winning."

"He doesn't care," Johnny mutters. "Never has. It's not like he needs the money or fame or anything, he's won two World golds and a Olympic silver and everybody knows he's a brilliant skater; also, he doesn't skate for the US, so his country'll love him even if he doesn't win for once."

"A skater who isn't ambitious?" Paris sounds sceptical.

"When we were kids," Johnny says. "And I'd won Junior Worlds, he was fifth. He told me to brag about my program, because it'd been brilliant. He didn't seem to be jealous at all; so either he's a damn good actor or he really just cares how good his own program is."

"Figures the only guy incapable of jealousy in this sport would fall for you," Paris chuckles. "Anyway, what did you do?"

"What?"

"What did you do?" Paris is grinning. "If you hadn't done something you want to bitch about, you wouldn't have called."

Johnny mumbles something, irritated at being so transparent, then starts to recount what happened.

 

~*~

 

How they land in Stéphane's bed in the end is a little unclear, to Johnny at least, though he has a tickling feeling if he asked Stéphane, he'd be told in excruciating detail. He doesn't want to be told, though. He just wants to lie there, on top of Stéphane, with their bodies merging, heat seaping through their clothes, and kiss the hell out of him.

That's all they're doing - making out like teenagers - or maybe like they did when they _were_ teenagers, and Johnny finds it's not so bad. He's still a little hesitant about all this - they didn't _really_ talk about it, he just found out Stéphane's room number, went up there, asked Stéphane what he wanted and Stéphane said, "Why do you have to ask things you already know?" and Johnny said, "So you really haven't gotten over it," and that was the end of that.

Well, not the end, exactly.

When he can't breathe anymore, he rolls off and snuggles up close to Stéphane's side, head on his chest. He tries to get back some air into his lungs, a seemingly impossible task when Stéphane's hand runs up and down his side, caressing him gently.

"You won't," he hears Stéphane say, in French, almost too quick to catch, and Johnny's not sure if it's meant for him or not. He isn't good with stuff like this. He doesn't have much experience, quantity or quality-wise. Not that that matters; he doesn't even know exactly what he expected from being here.

"Won't what?" he asks hesitantly.

Stéphane smiles and touches his nose, his cheeks, his eyelashes with his fingertip, then trails a little path over his eyebrow and down the side of his face towards his jaw, his neck. "Nothing. We should get up, probably."

They do, in the end, after a few more kisses and Johnny looks for his shoes just so he doesn't have to ask.

Because nothing ever works the way he plans, he finds himself asking two minutes later anyway, hand on the doorhandle. "Will I see you - uhm. I mean, not see, but, will this be." He meets Stéphane's gaze and falters. "We can't be friends anymore, can we?"

Stéphane looks at the floor. "I do not think you have ever known how to be friends with someone you -" he hesitates.

"- want to fuck," Johnny completes wryly.

Stéphane's cheeks are flushed. "Am I wrong?"

Johnny considers. He's surprised to realize that it's true, and a little bit embarrassed. Stéphane's right, the two aren't mutually exclusive. "You're right," he admits, then adds, "but if you want to be friends, I can try. I mean... I can try harder."

Stéphane looks up, shocked, as if he had expected anything but that.

"Why are you so surprised?" Johnny asks, tinge of irritation down his back like a drop of water sliding between his shoulder blades.

"From experience, I did not think it would be worth the effort, for you," Stéphane says calmly. "After we had sex last time, you did not seem to think it was important - being friends."

"I always thought it was," Johnny says convinced. "I just thought you were angry with me, so I didn't try to talk aside from the formal stuff we have to go through!"

Stéphane tilts his head to the side. "It is not like we did anything to which I had not given my consent. Why would I be angry? Because you did not wish to continue? I was... confused. I think. But not angry. And later, sad, because you stopped speaking to me. That is all."

"Oh." Johnny feels himself flush hotly. It... was a bit of a misunderstanding, then.

"Are you all right?" Stéphane touches Johnny's shoulder lightly. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, no, I'm fine. Do you want to get some lunch?"

There's a tiny smile curling up Stéphane's lips. "Yes."

"Are you're sure you're not mad at me?"

Stéphane shakes his head. As if to prove it, he pulls Johnny close by his hips and plants a kiss on his mouth, long, wet, messy and with lots of tongue.

"Not mad then," Johnny gasps sheepishly when they part.

"Hungry, though."

"Me too."

Just as they are through the door and out in the hallway, Stéphane turns to him one more time and gives him a searching look. "Why now?" he asks.

Johnny understands immediately. "I... don't know," he says carefully.

Stéphane narrows his eyes. "You are not trying -"

Johnny interrupts quickly, saying, "Actually, you know how I said the other day that we can't all be as confident as you are?"

Stéphane's nod is court, but telling.

Johnny smiles. "I start thinking one might grow to be, though."

"Ah." Stéphane smiles back then, his expression relieved, happy. "Slowly?"

"Yeah." Johnny shrugs. "Sorry."

"Don't be." There's no note of regret in Stéphane's voice, just pleasure. "I am very patient."

"I've noticed."

"You can kiss me often, however. I would like that very much."

Johnny grins at that, because yeah. Yeah, he can imagine.

 

~*~

The End.


End file.
